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Jan. 9th, 2026 09:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticityCineri gloria sera est. Glory paid to ashes comes too late. Piotr.
He remembered what it had been like here, once. There had been the sound of water rolling down the mountain, falling in an uneven curtain across the cave mouth. It had puddled there, splashing against the mud, absorbed in silence by the grass.
How glorious it had been, that the great Emperor Yuri, leader of their great resistance, the Imperial Army - had seen or heard of his movements, granted him a generalship, and sent him back to his home. It had been euphoric, to think about how he would die in his own district, his district. So much had been given to him. If he gave more, there would be glory.
He fought with his friends and compatriots and they bled and died and were stolen away. He lay in the mud, in cave-pits, in ditches. He wore his splinted bones and infected scars. He ate his most precious beasts. He shivered in the silent dark amongst the corpse rot.
He buried his family and the people of his district with his two hands.
He was blessed to hold the weapon, so many weapons, the enemy's scalp at his belt. He was blessed to have warm bed, some partner tangled in his sheets, staring at him in radiant worship. He was blessed by legions of men, whip-quick, furious, brilliant, blade-sharp. So much had been given to him. If he gave more, there would be glory.
The bomb had fell from the sky, then, and even now he did not know if it had been slow in his mind or in reality. He had seen it turn orange and yellow and then grey, grey, grey, grey. He had screamed and did not remember when he had stopped screaming.
He buried his family and the people of his district in his mind.
Then there was Olivia, wild and beautiful, who loved him for the guerilla that he was, who traced his scars with admiration, and laughed as he recounted old stories. And his family. His family. Another Count Vorkosigan after him. A heir and a spare and a daughter. How could he have been so blessed? So much had been given to him. If he gave more, there would be glory.
Death had come at all angles, dressed in black and silver, scored by laughter. He had heard them scream and they had not stopped screaming. Even then he had had bloody boots which had some memory of them, but they had been chased and his boots had come apart. It rained, washing everything away. His feet had blistered. There was nothing but them in their torn underclothes to be taken into the mountain.
He buried his family and the people of his district in his heart.
Flooring had been put down under the cave mouth, scanners and weaponry installed within the mountainside. There were steel-sounding plinks. Water-management ditches had been dug, turning the mud-splash into planned pools that drained off. Gutters had been hammered in, keeping the view of the cave mouth clear, two planned river-torrents flowing off to the side. A man had taken up his peculiar bargain.
What more was there to give?
He remembered what it had been like here, once. There had been the sound of water rolling down the mountain, falling in an uneven curtain across the cave mouth. It had puddled there, splashing against the mud, absorbed in silence by the grass.
How glorious it had been, that the great Emperor Yuri, leader of their great resistance, the Imperial Army - had seen or heard of his movements, granted him a generalship, and sent him back to his home. It had been euphoric, to think about how he would die in his own district, his district. So much had been given to him. If he gave more, there would be glory.
He fought with his friends and compatriots and they bled and died and were stolen away. He lay in the mud, in cave-pits, in ditches. He wore his splinted bones and infected scars. He ate his most precious beasts. He shivered in the silent dark amongst the corpse rot.
He buried his family and the people of his district with his two hands.
He was blessed to hold the weapon, so many weapons, the enemy's scalp at his belt. He was blessed to have warm bed, some partner tangled in his sheets, staring at him in radiant worship. He was blessed by legions of men, whip-quick, furious, brilliant, blade-sharp. So much had been given to him. If he gave more, there would be glory.
The bomb had fell from the sky, then, and even now he did not know if it had been slow in his mind or in reality. He had seen it turn orange and yellow and then grey, grey, grey, grey. He had screamed and did not remember when he had stopped screaming.
He buried his family and the people of his district in his mind.
Then there was Olivia, wild and beautiful, who loved him for the guerilla that he was, who traced his scars with admiration, and laughed as he recounted old stories. And his family. His family. Another Count Vorkosigan after him. A heir and a spare and a daughter. How could he have been so blessed? So much had been given to him. If he gave more, there would be glory.
Death had come at all angles, dressed in black and silver, scored by laughter. He had heard them scream and they had not stopped screaming. Even then he had had bloody boots which had some memory of them, but they had been chased and his boots had come apart. It rained, washing everything away. His feet had blistered. There was nothing but them in their torn underclothes to be taken into the mountain.
He buried his family and the people of his district in his heart.
Flooring had been put down under the cave mouth, scanners and weaponry installed within the mountainside. There were steel-sounding plinks. Water-management ditches had been dug, turning the mud-splash into planned pools that drained off. Gutters had been hammered in, keeping the view of the cave mouth clear, two planned river-torrents flowing off to the side. A man had taken up his peculiar bargain.
What more was there to give?